Sunday, 18 September 2011
10:02:18 PM (GMT)
[I apologize for the strange format this is in. I typed this two years ago on an
old computer without internet, and it was a lot of work to get it onto my Mac to
upload. I might fix it later. It's about a boy named Whitney (that's actually his
last name) and a girl named Ashly, and changes point of view. It was inspired by the
music of a band called Alesana. Parts 2 and 3 are written in a notebook somewhere,
and if anyone bothers to read this and wants more, I'll type them out too. There's
also a sequel, but it's too scary to post, I think.]
The note is all I have left.
If I can’t make this one choice on my own, I might never be able to think for
The only person I told was my best friend, Kendra. She told me not to go, and I
laughed it off, saying, "I hadn’t even considered it! Of coarse, I’m not going to
actually go. After all, it’s probably a kidnapper, a stalker, or a rapist.
There’s no way I’d fall for something like this!" I mean, can you imagine, me,
Ashly, who’s always the cautious one, taking that kind of risk? It’s ridiculous.
I didn’t tell my parents. They would call the cops for sure. Why don’t I want
them to call the cops? I’ve gone over this a million times in my mind, but I just
can’t find the answer. Am I scared? Well, yeah, a little. But mostly, I’m
And I’m sick of people always telling me what to do! “Ashly, I thought this
would be great; I was cheerleading captain, and so was your grandmother. Wouldn’t
it be nice for you to be captain too? Please try harder.”-Mom. “Ashly, ya know,
you really shouldn’t wear gray so much. I mean, no offense or anything, but it just
makes you look really pale.”-Kendra. “Ashly, what’s this? Your algebra grade
has gone way down. Look at this, an eighty! What happened? Why don’t you go
study? And I mean now.”-Dad. “Ashly, speak up! Ashly, you’re too
People are always trying to boss me around, or trying to live my life for me.
Always telling me what to do. I know that sounds juvenile, but I don’t care.
It’s true. All I want is to find out who I am, and be that person. I mean, after
all, isn’t that what the teenage years are for? But how can I do that with
everyone making decisions for me?
Well, here’s one decision I made for myself: I didn’t throw the note away. And
I didn’t give it to the cops. I kept it.
The note isn’t telling me what to do. Rather, it’s inviting me. Like, whoever
this is would be honored if I came. I kinda like that.
My Dearest Ashly--
I would like to invite you to spend the afternoon with me. I’ve been waiting so
long to meet you. Or, rather, for you to meet me. I already feel that I know you
better than I know myself. You obviously do not have to agree to come. But if you
are interested, please meet me inside the old library downtown at 5pm, Sunday,
--A Fan of Yours
P.S.—If you please, don’t wear the contacts. They hide the beauty of your
natural eye colour. I look forward to getting lost in the glow of your natural eye
P.S.S.—This will be fun.
Is that creepy? Well, yeah. But it doesn’t sound threatening, at least to me.
At least I don’t see it that way.
The part about the contacts does scare me though. I mean, this person must know me
pretty well. So they said.
I begged mom to buy me the contacts, even though I can see fine. And the hair dye.
I thought maybe that would help.
The problem is, I’m just so pale. My great-grandmother was actually albino, if
that has anything to do with it. But seriously. My whole face looks like a black
and white pencil drawing. Or sepia. Or a photo that someone took an eraser to.
My hair is a very pale brown, the color of dried grass. And my eyes! They’re this
freaky pale gray, almost white. My skin is white as a sheet. Like someone painted
it with liquid paper.
With the blue contacts, the dirty-blonde hair dye, and a tan, I hoped to add some
color to me. And I think it worked. People used to say, “Ashly would be so
pretty, if…”. But now they say, “Ashly’s so pretty,” and leave it at that.
People always teased me for me eyes. But now here’s someone calling them
beautiful? The part of me that I hate most, someone loves? How could anyone feel
that way about me? I have to admit; I like it.
I never meant to hurt anyone.
But once it’s been started, it just can’t be stopped. Once you do it, you’re
in it for life. Or so it seems.
It isn’t simple, not by any means. It isn’t easy to explain. But, I will do my
The best way it can be described is emptiness. Like, literally, a huge, gaping
void, inside you, where there used to be a soul.
And in order for the emptiness to not take over completely, in order to stay alive,
you have to find something to feed it. If you can’t feed it, it will consume you.
I didn’t want to hurt the girl.
Sorry, that’s a lie. I did, very, very much want to hurt her. And I feel no
guilt. I hear no whispering of my conscience. There is only pure exhilaration.
I’ll tell you; you can do this. You can hurt people, you can like it, you can
But beware. The emptiness will haunt you.
As I walk up the steps of the old library, I wonder, not for the first time, if I
have lost my mind.
Someone could be in there, right now, waiting to kill me. But I’m going to go in,
on my own free will. It’s like I don’t even care.
The library closed down after a newer, less dusty, less musty, and, some said, less
haunted, library opened up in the neighborhood. The old one was supposed to be made
into a community center of something, but as I far as I know, nothing has changed
I have my cell phone with me, and I feel a little safer with it in my pocket, with
911 on speed dial. Nothing bad can happen here.
If it’s someone normal (but what normal person would arrange a surprise meeting,
by way of a note, in an abandoned library?) then I’ll be fine. If it’s a freak,
who knows, maybe I’ll be a hero for calling 911 and catching them. It could
Yeah, my logic is a little twisted. A little naïve. A little crazy. But, do you
know what the really, really funny part is?
I don’t even care.
My hands are shaking.
My heart is pounding so hard it hurts. I’ve waited so long for this.
The girl walks up the front steps. She pauses. She comes closer. A few more
steps. Her hand’s on the door now. The handle twists.
My eyes are swimming. I feel lightheaded.
I’m so excited.
I struggle to steady my nerves.
She opens the door.
When I open the door, at first I see no one.
I imagined he would be here, right by the door, waiting. We were supposed to meet
here, but was he planning on staying here? Because, honestly… This place is pretty
There’re cobwebs all over. And the dust is choking. I hope my nose doesn’t
start running. Mom used to take me here when I was really little. It was so
different then. It’s hard to believe that it’s the same place; but, then, some
things are familiar; the huge wooden bookshelves are still here, although they are
empty now. From where I’m standing, I can walk forward into the large, open main
room, or, to either side of me, there is a staircase, leading up to the second floor,
where there used to be maps and computers and offices and of coarse, lots and lots of
Then something moves.
I strain to see in the dim light.
And a figure that I had mistaken for a shadow steps out of the darkness under the
It really is an art, murder.
There’s so much planning involved, so many things to think about.
For example, the door wasn’t really closed. It was just ever so slightly ajar. I
doubt she even noticed. But she came inside, and let the door close. Well, I broke
the lock, so that once the door had closed, it would lock, and we would both be
Also, the note. I had to make sure that she came, and didn’t just call the
police, like a good girl. Although I did, just in case, have an escape plan.
I need to make sure she wasn’t followed, I remind myself.
I chose my location perfectly. When I got here, someone had already covered all of
the windows with black paper, and the only light is from the skylights. So no can
spy on us through the windows. And there’s only one door in this place. Well,
there was an emergency exit, and fire escape, but I locked that securely. I’m good
I take a deep breath, and step out into the light.
As soon as I see him, I know that I’m going to die.
And it’s not just because he’s holding a knife. It’s something else. I
don’t know how I know this, but I just know, with every bone in my body, that
it’s true. I’m dead sure. This is the end for me.
The logical part of me, the part that I usually listen to, argues against this
morbid premonition. You’ve got a cell phone, press the speed dial, you’ll be
fine! Heck, you might even be able to just walk right back outside, if you hurry!
But I can’t move. I’m frozen in my footsteps.
This is unreal.
How can this be?
He looks just like me.
I run my fingers nervously over the edge of my knife blade.
After all this planning, all of this preparing, all of this waiting an d imagining
how it would all play out, all the visions inside my head of this night and what
would happen, what I would do…
All that, and I still am unsure of how to start this thing.
I clear my throat.
Well, not just like me, I realize.
His face is longer than mine; my face is rounder. He is far skinnier than I am.
I’m not fat or anything. He’s just skin and bones. His eyes look kind of sunken
into his face. His hair is longer than most boys, and it sticks out in every
direction, kind of randomly, as if he runs his fingers through it quite often but
never thinks to actually comb it.
But then there are the similarities. His eyes are my own. They are the pale gray
that I see every night, after removing my contacts before bed. His hair is the brown
my hair was before I dyed it. His skin is even paler than mine. He has slender
fingers, like mine, and through a hole in his pant leg I can see that, like me, he
has very knobby knees.
But even these few resemblances are so significant to me. I’ve never met anyone
who looked a thing like me.
His fingers are bleeding as if inflicted with a thousand tiny paper cuts. No doubt
the result of the knife he’s holding. Not just holding, actually; he’s playing
with it. Running his fingers over it. I guess he doesn’t care that he’s
As I stare at him, he clears his throat.
I wait to see what will happen next.
I grin at her.
She’s beautiful, even with the unnatural-looking hair colour. When I walk
towards her, she doesn’t move. She seems rooted to the spot.
“I’m so glad you came, Ashly.”
“No one followed you?”
“No. And my parents think I’m at the new library.”
I take a deep breath. My heart is about to explode in my chest. The anticipation
is almost too much to bear. I walk towards her. I grin and whisper,
“Let’s get this party started.”
I break into a cold sweat.
“Let’s get this party started.”
I want to run. Instead, I just back away. Then I’m pressed against the door. I
turn the handle. It’s locked. There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach. I
really am going to die.
He keeps playing with the knife and grinning. I don’t want him to chase me or to
attack me. I want to talk. I want to know who he is. I want to know what the hell
is going on.
“Who are you?” I manage finally.
“Oh, yes, yes, where are my manners? I apologize. My name is Whitney.”
“And you; you are Ashly.”
I swallow. “Uh-huh.”
His grin widens. His eyes flash.
“Are you ready to run?”
Last edited: 18 September 2011